I Just Want to Talk

I’ve got so much time but wanted hours
so I took them from tomorrow and woke
up wishing I had borrowed more, although we talked
til 2, or 4. Each night I smudge moths between my fingers
but the next more futile goths flirt by warning of the future:
children will grow up to eat our clothes. We don’t want
to talk about books and movies anymore; we want
to know what is the craziest sex we’ve had
and what is the worst thing we still think about
and why are some of us obsessed with redecoration?
One of these days a phase will last forever, and now
we want it to be this one or we’ll die, or worse,
the person we don’t expect will, a Josh we thought
would hang around forever. I hate sleeping when I’m with friends so
we cashed in a 10 AM for a story about our mothers and
bargained another 11 for a song the man I’m dating made. It’s pathetic
to hate going home alone and that’s why I try so hard to stay:
we ran out on time but I would have traded the day.

I Am Not Going to Have Sex With You!

There’s a hot dad in the hallway
of the ICE protecting
his baby from me
and my stories. I have to tell
Ben about it later: the tall father
in hell I met out of town,
but then turned around; he farther
gone than I thought, me
in love elsewhere. Upside
down he carries her,
making the tiny sounds
that say she’s happy for now
in the aisle between
me and what I’m supposed
to be doing: not gently holding
the wedding band
that quicksilvered every
receipt so I could see
his warped me wooed in it,
but waiting by the real
mirror until my inspiration returns
from his own trip. He flew
by like scenery I missed
because I was texting, too
flat to distract me from
the guy who’s coming back
tomorrow. But where is
the baby? In a pink sweater,
chatting about whatever
people think at that age,
unaware their dads
are making eyes at thirty-fiveyear-
old types. She could be
me someday, if he leaves her
alone, but he says that’s who
he lives for, and so I showed him
last night what he’ll fathom, fully
“fine,” the rest of his life: rejection.

Zweiners

It was meant to be a calm one,
a couple beers and chat,
but Sam requested nostrum,
and we resigned ourselves to that.

The first topic was rousing—
the second even more—
but then the car pulled meekly up
and I felt the need to score:

A guy I have a crush on
who works behind the bar
was wearing a white tank top
as hot guys often are.

I first saw him at Berghain,
where he also hotly works,
and all the people fawning
must be among the perks.

I made eyes in his direction
and tried to crack a joke
til someone gave a gesture,
and then we did more coke.

The next topics were stirring:
trendy new identities,
if phone sex counts as anything,
and our dumb lost virginities.

The place was very crowded;
we could not help but smoke;
the hours skipped and hopped for us—
of course we did more coke.

The guy and I touched shoulders!
He’s really very hot.
We talked about if Germans
like too much to take a shot.

At 4 the bar was closing—
it was time for us to leave—
but a dismal mood descended
from which I asked reprieve.

We knew we shouldn’t risk it—
one more bar would just provoke—
but I was sad and thinking
that we should do more coke.

Inside we quickly realized
we’d made a big mistake:
we were out of drugs and cigarettes
and should no longer be awake.

From there we swiftly parted;
fast down the hill I flew.
That guy, he’s got a girlfriend
—I guess I kind of always knew.